I held her there as the last of my orgasm abated.
I’d never been that hard.
I’d never fucked a woman with so much intensity.
I’d never come for that long. It felt like it wouldn’t end, and I froze with hopes that it wouldn’t.
Dana was languid in my arms and after moving her leg to the side, I fell against the pillows and drew her against my chest as I caught my breath. Our mutual, heavy breathing was soon replaced with long, deep inhales and exhales, and in unison we recovered.
Recovered didn’t sound like the right word. Recover brought to mind something bad that you had to overcome or heal from. Sex with her wasn’t that at all.
She was passionate and sensual and sexy and pleasing. The taste and feel of her was like nothing I’d ever experienced, or something I’d ever tire of.
Not at that moment, because I was sacked, but I was thinking long-term.
That thought alone was both comforting and terrifying. I’d been looking for someone nearly my whole adult life that made me feel like she did. Now, wondering if I’d found her, I was concerned she didn’t want the same thing.
I had to be careful—take my time—but it felt like she was trying to keep me at arm’s length. Maybe tonight, with the talking and what was probably the single most incredible sex I’d ever had, even despite my worries that I’d be clumsy and awful after drinking, she’d ease up. Maybe she’d see that I really wasn’t feeding her a line of bullshit when I wanted to spend time with her.
As soon as her breathing leveled off, and I was certain she’d fallen asleep, I gingerly pulled my arm out from under her and quietly went into the bathroom to remove the condom.
I wasn’t sure if the fact that she hadn’t said anything after we finished was good or not, but I gave myself a break, arguing that I hadn’t said anything either.
She was tired, and I was worn out too. Hell, it hadn’t been a slow ride. We’d fucked like our lives depended on it.
For a second, I considered taking a shower, but, after a clean pit check, I abandoned the notion.
When I got to the door, before I flipped off the light, I observed her. Naked. On her back, arms above her head. Her shape was stunning. Curvy, yet petite. Soft in all the right places. The smooth line of her waist that wrapped around each hip. With her arms up, her breasts had fallen to the side and they moved gently like waves lapping a shore.
There was no doubt in my mind she was exactly what I wanted, and not just for the night or the next few weeks. This feeling of wanting to claim her, and having her claim be back, was new to me, but undeniably there.
I turned off the light before my already half-hard again erection came back in full force.
I hadn’t been as gentle as I probably should have been with her, but she’d been the one to ask for more. For harder. I did my best to provide what she needed, and judging by how replete and satiated she relaxed into my arms when we’d finished, I was assured I had.
Not wanting to wake her, I pulled the blanket from the bottom of the bed, got under the comforter and covered us up. I wanted to draw her against me again and fall asleep with her close, but resisted the urge and rolled onto my side next to her.
I fell asleep, and the one time I woke up, she’d wrapped an arm around to my front where it laid flat against my pec. I placed my hand over hers and fell back to sleep.
When my eyes blinked open the next morning, the sun wasn’t all the way up, but it was beginning to get lighter outside. The clock beside my bed said it was just after six a.m. and it didn’t take long for my head to clear and realize she was gone.
Sitting up, I ran my hands over my face. Stubble had grown in since I’d last shaved the morning before and I hoped the roughness hadn’t been to abrasive when I’d had my face… well, you know where I had my face.
Where hadn’t I had my face?
I blinked the last of the sleep away and stretched, comforted she hadn’t gone too far because her clothes were still on my floor.
Inspired by the purple sweats that were laying on the hardwood at the foot of my bed, I threw on a pair of my own. I was suffering from a particularly stubborn case of morning wood, so I used the restroom, washed up, and brushed my teeth before I went looking for her, bringing along the glasses she’d left on my nightstand.
I didn’t bother with a shirt because, frankly, I work damn hard at staying in shape, and the best reward of all was the way she looked at me. Let’s be real, when a woman appreciates your body, something you work hard on, it’s gratifying as fuck.
Plus, I had to pull out all the stops.
If she liked what I had going on, I was determined to remind her she’d have to stick around to enjoy the benefits of it.
When I got to the living room, I found her curled up on the couch wearing my t-shirt with her legs tucked into the belly of it.
I knelt beside her, nudged her arm, and then she startled.
“Sorry.” I held my hands up in defense. The glare she gave me could have killed, so I offered her the spectacles in my hand as a peace offering. Her brow tight, she looked around kind of confused as she blinked, snatching her frames from me. Maybe she wasn’t a morning person.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked, making sure to use a tone that wouldn’t be painful if she had a hangover—which was possible considering she’d drank the night before, but I wasn’t sure.
She scratched her head. Her red hair was wild and one lock of it was plastered to the side of her face. I motioned to move it, but she pulled away and smoothed her hands over her head to do it herself.
Definitely not a morning person.
However, grouchy morning Dana was so motherfucking cute that I wanted to laugh.
“I got up last night because I was hungry. So I raided your fridge and ate a bunch of cheese. Then I guess I fell asleep out here.”
Okay. I laughed. “Are you still hungry?”
“Yes. I’m fucking starving and thirsty.”
I offered her a hand to sit up, and she took it, but she wasn’t graceful. In fact, the second I let go she fell back into the cushion the other way and groaned.
I headed to the kitchen to find something to feed her.
She was quiet, so I didn’t hear her get up, but when I turned around at the island, I found her standing, holding her crotch with one hand, making an unpleasant expression.
“Are you okay?”
She waddled closer. “I’m fine. It’s just …” Her eyes met mine, then a look of surrender crossed her face. “… you’ve got a great, big dick. Okay?”
My jaw hung open. I’d never been the kind of guy to dwell on the size of my cock, but I’d never really had any complaints either. I’d seen other guys at the gym, and there’s no shortage of meat in porno, but I always thought of myself as average. Hearing otherwise, from her, was a bonus I hadn’t expected.
“You okay?” I grimaced. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, I’ll live, but don’t play shy. You should have warned me.” I would have been more worried if a smile hadn’t started tipping one corner of her pretty mouth.
I leaned over the counter, enjoying her in my kitchen. She made the place seem more alive.
Since we were talking about things, and since hearing I have a nice cock first thing in the morning is one hell of a mood booster, I wanted her to know how much I enjoyed myself too.
“Last night was…” Scratching my head, I searched for the right adjective, but nothing seemed to measure up.
Soon, she was giving me an ornery look like hurry the fuck up.
“Drunk,” she chimed in when I didn’t find the word fast enough.
It wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear.
Incredible.
Fantastic.
Hot.
The best sex ever.
These were the words I was shooting down because they didn’t seem acceptable. Her best assumption of the night we shared was—
“What?”
“We were drunk,” she reiterated. “I haven’t drunk that much wine on my own in a long time.”
I turned around, and opened the cabinet for the coffee and a filter. By the time I poured the water into my trusty Bunn, I was still unsure of what to say back. Hopefully, this was just another symptom of it being morning. She was still half asleep or something.
“I wasn’t that drunk,” I defended.
“Well, what were you going to say then?” She sat at the island on a barstool instead of on top of the counter like how I’d already fantasized we would drink our coffee together.
I curbed the instinct to be defensive. After all, she was under-caffeinated. “I’m thinking,” I said.
Thank God, my Bunn was fast, and less than a few minutes later, I was pouring her the first cup. I pulled the cinnamon from the spice rack and slid it over to where she was along with a spoon. Then I walked a full cup around the bar and placed it in front of her.
“You remembered I like cinnamon.” Her face softened even more, and she flipped the cap up and gave it two or three good shakes. Instantly, I smelled the spice as it mixed with the hot drink.
I left her to it and, back at the coffee pot, filled a cup for myself. Curiously, I reached for the cinnamon and sprinkled it into mine too.
She sipped hers, her eyes closed, savoring it. It was entertaining how, with only a few swallows of caffeine, she already looked cheerier and more like the woman I was getting to know.
Suspiciously, she observed me over the black frames of her glasses as I swirled the spoon we now shared in my mug. When she sat hers back down, holding it with both hands, she asked, “You drink that in your coffee?”
I didn’t, but I wasn’t afraid of trying new things. “No, but yours smelled good, so I thought I’d give it a shot.”
She quirked an eyebrow and waited. The color in her cheeks was back, and she didn’t act like she wanted to murder me anymore. So that was good.
I made a show of my first taste, lifting the mug to my nose and giving it a thorough sniff, closing my eyes to pretend I was really taking it all in. Truthfully, I just wanted to see her smile for the first time that morning. Then I slurped as loudly as I could and let the warm drink sit in my mouth a second longer than I normally would, letting myself get a good sampling.
It didn’t taste nearly as amazing as the beautiful red head sitting at my bar, but I had to be honest—it was pretty good. Less bitter than just black with a warm bite from the cinnamon right at the end. I liked it.
She downed the rest of her cup and doctored it for her next pour. After I poured her a refill, I needed to address a more important issue.
“Okay. Back to last night. If you’re having a hard time remembering what happened, I’m more than willing to remind you,” I teased, and she laughed but tried to hide it. “You’re not drunk now.”
Her eyes didn’t lie, which was something I was quickly learning about her. No matter how left-field the things she sometimes said were, I could almost gauge what she was really thinking by how she looked at me. She was expressive, and there were many faces of Dana I’d already witnessed in the short time we’d spent together.
There was the pensive Dana, guarded and cool. Another who was as confusing as she was blunt. Sometimes, when she blurted brazen things, her blue eyes would show trepidation like it wasn’t something she’d normally say. Those were pretty much the only two that were hanging me up because all the other cues her eyes gave me were promising.
Lighthearted. Contented. Aroused. Playful. Smart. Wickedly calculating. And, lastly, interested. For the time being, that was the one I was most concerned about. Her interest was my number one objective until after the wedding.
I’d keep my word and go much slower than I wanted to, but that didn’t really bother me anymore. Spending time with her wasn’t a deficit.
She didn’t reply to my offer of a good old fashioned memory jogging. Although, I was bluffing anyway. If she’d been serious, and was truly tender, I didn’t want to cause her discomfort.
I’d need to be more careful with her.
But I won’t bullshit you, about half of me loved how she had a reminder of me between her legs.
There, I said it, but it was a fact.
Without a tidy way to explain or deny it, the root of that dominant feeling was probably seated in the wanting to be enough for someone who I wanted in return. Hearing her verbally confirm that not only was I enough for her, but I’d almost been too much—as bad as it might sound—delighted a dark place deep within my male psyche.
I’d said about half, and that was a fucking lusty forty nine percent of my mind.
However, the majority was just the opposite. I didn’t want her injured, in any measure. Minute as the tenderness between her legs might be, I didn’t take pleasure in that at all, and I certainly wouldn’t add to it.
“Well, say something,” I urged.
“You’re telling me you remember everything?” I had a feeling she did too, but was only being stubborn.
“Yeah. Everything.” I opened the refrigerator. The fact that she was wearing only my t-shirt was beginning to distract me. She was hungry, and so was I, but we’d be settling with breakfast. “Do you want eggs?”
She shifted, crossing then uncrossing her legs.
“I’ll just eat some popcorn when I get home. You don’t have to cook for me.”
I spun with the carton of extra-large free-range eggs, the butter, and the milk in my hands. “Oh, no you don’t, and popcorn isn’t a meal,” I countered. “Besides, you’re not going anywhere.”
“What?”
“Don’t do that. You know what the deal was.” I considered that I might have to make good on my bluff and walk the walk, if she was really playing the I-don’t-remember card. She was spending the day with me, and not rushing home like she suggested. “Do you like scrambled?”
She didn’t answer, so I let the skillet heat. When I couldn’t take the silence or the feeling of her watching anymore, I turned around, not sure what move to make.
It would have been fun to pick her up and take her back to bed and see if history would repeat itself.
Furthermore, I was there the night before. She’d been serious when she said she’d wanted me, and I was confident I could get her to do it again. Sober.
Then I remember how much she liked hearing me talk to her, and I prayed that would be enough to sway her. I’d use my words and the power of persuasion.
“Dana,” I crooned as I rounded the counter.
“Cord,” she sang back.
I didn’t touch her, but I stood close. The charge I’d felt between us the night before was still there. Maybe more than ever.
“Last night, you cashed in a debt, and I gladly paid it with my tongue. Then you agreed to stay the night with me, but I woke up alone.” I kept my tone light, not wanting to come off like an asshole, although I was being kind of an asshole.
I wanted what I wanted. Her time.
She stirred in her seat but didn’t give much away.
I continued, “I asked you to spend the day with me, and, from what I remember, you were only too happy to agree.”
Then she went licking that fucking lip. It was torturous when she was wearing pants, but, sitting on my barstool without them, she was all the more tempting.
“It’s up to you though. You can go home whenever you like.” I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Or you can let me make you scrambled eggs, while you drink your cinnamon coffee, and then let me show you a good time today. It’s your choice, mouse.”
It was possible that I’d went too far. I should have stopped at it’s your choice, when her breath shuddered, and I wasn’t sure how she’d take being called mouse.
Dana turned her cheek to meet me face to face, something I almost expected. Challenged, she wouldn’t back down. So I didn’t move as she met my gaze, hoping to either get a kiss or my way.
“I like lots of pepper on my eggs, and don’t call me mouse.” Her brow rose on one side, punctuating her terms.
I got what I wanted most—more Dana.
Pleased with my progress, the sound of the butter sizzling in the pan caught my attention, but before I could tend to it, she grabbed my hand. It was subtle, but the short tug on my arm stopped me in my tracks. Her chin tipped ever so slightly, and her mouth hinted a smile.
Were my eyes deceiving me?
Dana Rogers was asking for a kiss. It was a banner fucking morning.
Her eyes didn’t hold the heat like they had the times before, something new was there. Affection.
Then I kissed her, pressed my lips to hers, and, with little movement on either of our parts, it became my favorite one yet.
“I wasn’t that drunk last night either,” she softly confessed against my mouth like she didn’t want anyone else to know. Her secret was safe with me.
We didn’t talk a whole lot as I cooked, and after she changed back into her clothes from the night before, she sat quietly at my island scrolling through her phone. It was surprising how even without conversation or physical contact, she improved the atmosphere around me.
I peppered her eggs how I liked them, which she seemed to be fine with because it took her less time to eat them than they took to cook.
Arching her back and stretching her arms above her head, she told me, “Those hit the spot.”
I liked hitting all her spots and wanted to search for more of them.
“You’re a good egg-cook,” she admitted with little fanfare. Although she rarely missed a chance to tell me what she liked, it never got old. She complimented in a way that never felt disingenuous, and I had a feeling that she wasn’t one to blow smoke up asses.
“I know my way around my kitchen. I can even make my own sandwiches. How about you? Do you cook?”
She laughed. “I’m okay at it, but cooking is fun when you’re eating with people. That’s why I like popcorn, because I don’t like to cook for only me.”
I understood where she was coming from. “That’s true, but my mom insisted I knew how to feed myself. So she taught me all of my favorites.” Of course, I’d hated it at the time, but history had shown that Mom knew best.
“That’s smart.” She held her head in her hand and waited for me to talk as I finished what was on my plate.
I wiped my mouth and pushed my empty dish away. “In fact, the cinnamon in your coffee had me thinking about cinnamon rolls, but we didn’t have enough time.”
Skeptically, she asked, “You can make those? From scratch?”
Together we got up and began cleaning the mess.
“Damn right. I was raised by a single mother.” She stood between me and the dishwasher, and as I rinsed our dishes, she loaded the machine.
For the record: her ass still looked phenomenal in those sweats. So it hadn’t just been the beer I’d drank the night before.
“I’m a sucker for any kind of dough. Rolls. Muffins. Biscuits. Whole loaves of Wonder Bread.”
I committed this information to memory.
“Next time.” I hoped out loud. She hadn’t confirmed there’d be one, but she grinned and shook her head letting me know she was getting used to at least hearing it. I added, “Like I said, we don’t have time for all of that today.”
“We don’t?” Dana asked.
“Nope.”
She didn’t have any makeup on and I could see the honey-colored freckles that topped every skyward surface of her face. The balls of her full cheeks. Her forehead. The slope of her pin-straight nose. Like peaches and cream.
I stepped around her and closed the dishwasher, and then turned it on. Pulling the grey waffle weave towel out of the waistband of my sweats, where I’d stuck it for safe keeping, I ran it over the counter.
She observed, a glimmer of appreciation in her blue eyes.
“I cook. I clean.” I flexed my chest and arms in an obvious display of my male virility. “Some people…” I pointed at her. “…might even say I have other talents. Outside of the kitchen, that is.” I waved at her, my two fingers wiggling in the air, and she rolled her eyes. “Some might even say I’m a great catch.” I bit my lip and wagged my eyebrows at her.
Dana laughed through a big smile, and her head fell to the side enjoying the boastful monologue I’d preformed to make her do just that. The sound of her chuckling put something inside of me at ease.
She swatted at my chest. I caught her hand there and held it against me.
“You already struck oil earlier, Cord. I’m all yours today.”
Those were my new favorite words. I’m all yours.
Fuck. I couldn’t allow myself to fucking fuck her. Fuck.
“Fuck,” I said, then quickly realized it wasn’t to myself.
Caught off guard by my strange outburst, she pulled her hand away. “You’re so weird.”
If she only knew.
“Okay, we’re already wasting time. Come on.” I grabbed her hand again, half expected her to pull it away, but she didn’t. That time she didn’t resist at all.
Get used to it, baby.
I took us to my closet and turned on the light, and then let her go to shove the row of shirts down the bar, searching for the one I wanted.
There it was.
My vintage, lucky 1985 Royals World Series shirt which I’d found on eBay. I’d only been a kid back then, but any true fan would understand the significance. The fabric was thin, so I didn’t pull it out much—except for special occasions. Superstitious occasions, really. It didn’t let me down often, and when it came to the stubborn girl standing beside me, I’d take all the luck I could collect.
I pulled a pair of cargo shorts off the top shelf and noticed her looking around. It was a pretty big closet, but I didn’t own enough clothes to even come close to filling it.
Then I remembered a shirt that I’d bought for Trevor, but it had been too tight for him to wear. Even though it was probably going to look huge on her, I’d let her sport it.
The more luck the better, right? And, since there was a game that afternoon, it wasn’t all in vain.
I held the shirt up in front of her. “Yeah, that’ll work.”
“Are you serious?” she asked. “I’m not wearing that. It’s too matchy-matchy.”
It was another one of those moments where I wished I had a nickname for her, but I didn’t since she wasn’t too keen on the last failed option.
So I simply said, “Dana, it is Sunday Funday, and there’s an away game. You have to wear it.” Then I went out on a limb. “And what was wrong with calling you mouse?”
I’d liked that one.
She took the shirt and her brow furrowed. “I get it. I’m short. Mouse. Ha-ha.” Her sarcasm was as thick as her messy red hair.
“Well, they’re not too matchy—they’re from different seasons—and that’s not why I called you mouse,” I argued and marched out of the closet.
Spotting the remote on the far night stand, I strolled around the bed to flip on the television for her.
“I called you mouse because you were sneaking cheese in the middle of the night. You have to admit, that’s kind of fucking mousy.”
Her mouth fell open, a playful looking guilt splashed across her face. “Well don’t you have all the jokes this morning?” she queried defensively and tossed my shirt aside like she had her jacket the night before. Then she leaned over onto her hands atop my unmade bed. Purple leg by purple leg, she climbed on top of the white bedding and crawled her way to where I stood.
Breathe in, Cord.
Breathe out, Cord.
Do not fuck her, Cord.
When she got to me, she sat up on her knees, and we were almost eye to eye. She wrapped one arm around my neck, running her fingers over the short hair at my nape, and then slowly her other hand followed.
A quick—but most effective seduction—she pressed her chest against mine. I pulled my head back and looked down my nose at her, all the while wrestling the urge to throw her down and do everything I could think of to her.
I cleared my throat. “Are you going to wear the shirt?”
“If I do, then you’re going to owe me again.”
Keeping score with this woman was fast becoming my favorite game.